Growing Pains
by running-in-circles2
Summary: 1980. The British Isles family and the Troubles. England, Northern Ireland and Ireland must sort out their hatred. Author's Note: This is a very complicated period of history which I have only summarised here. This fanfic isn't meant to be inflammatory or suggestive of any sort of politics, it is merely headcanon. Part of the Memory Lane series.
1. Chapter 1

England reflected that the conversation had only taken a crescendo to shouting in the last half an hour, which was quite impressive given that the Republic had been in there over an hour. Then again, it wasn't as if his conversations with North had been much better as of late.

The Republic had dropped in to visit that morning, as their bosses had suggested she do more and more recently. Fat lot of good it would do. England exchanged a few forced polite words with her and excused himself, saying he had copious amounts of paperwork. Ireland had then taken over the lounge with Wales and Scotland, where conversation between them had flowed far more naturally. Lastly, Ireland had – out of nothing but duty – gone to talk to the last brother. The one that had spent the day up in his room upon hearing of the Republic's arrival.

It was a shame, England thought, that Northern Ireland had got the last bedroom in the house, which had happened to be next to his study. After Ireland had left he had bribed, wheedled and shouted down his other brothers' protestations that they have that bedroom, stating repeatedly that he could have peace and quiet in the study only if they took the bedrooms on the lower floor. However, when they'd found Northern Ireland as a gawky seven year old in Belfast (God knew how long he'd existed before then), England had had no choice but to surrender the last empty bedroom and his supposedly blissful peace. In hindsight, he probably would have had to surrender less of the latter if he had let Wales or Scotland take that room.

A shrill cry echoed through the wall, "You ungrateful little – "  
It was over taken by a lower younger shout of "Ungrateful? For what exactly? Your bombs?"  
Even England had to wince at that once. He tuned out the argument with weary practise as the voices escalated.

The Republic had probably dropped in to greet North with the same forced politeness that she had used with England, given her more or less equal disdain for both of them at the moment. England could only guess what North had said but petrol had been added and the resulting fight had burst into flames like it so often did in their family.

"Stay with your precious England, then! But don't forget which of us colonised you! Which of us dragged you into their wars!" Ireland's voice reverberated through the house.

Ah, and there was the inevitable slam of the door. England listened to Ireland's furious footsteps on the stairs, no doubt headed for the lounge where Scotland and Wales had sat in uncomfortable silence even if they hadn't heard as much of the argument as England had.

England picked up his pen and returned to the dull stack of sheets before him but another door slamming caught his attention first. He turned around to see a sullen, red-faced Northern Ireland march into his study and drop himself onto one of the sofas. North glared at him pointedly. England crinkled his eyebrows, casting around desperately for something, anything to say. The prickly silence stretched on.

England cleared his throat. "What did you say?"

North glared at him more until he crossed his arms and said, "I asked her why she bothered with her polite little act."

England nodded. That would start a fight, he supposed. "Right," he said awkwardly.  
He regretted it instantly as North's glare only intensified, as did the angry blush on his face.

The painfully awkward silence – which England knew he should break – stretched on. Downstairs he heard the indistinct voices of Wales and Scotland calming Ireland down. That's what he should do – offer words of comfort to North; talk to him. But even mentally England cringed away from the words, rusty as they were with disuse. And a hug, squeeze of the shoulder…well, England couldn't remember the last time he had done either to North, if ever.

"I told her she clearly didn't give a damn about me, or she would have done something by now. Told her people or back off or something, I dunno. And she practically caught fire." North finished in an angry shrug.

England could only nod again, brain ridiculously empty of anything appropriate to say.  
"Said she was glad she'd walked out. Bitch."

That North, the sullen North who had had a troubled country since its existence – had to come to England to say anything after an argument warranted some sort of reply; a half-decent, wise, helpful reply.

England nodded awkwardly for a third time.

North let out an exasperated sigh, rolled his eyes and stormed out. England was getting tired of slamming doors.

As his little brother gave up on him, England couldn't help but feel a sinking feeling in his chest. He put the pen down slowly and dropped his head into his hands. He remained like that for perhaps a few minutes, absent-mindedly listening to the parting conversation taking place downstairs. Soon he heard the front door close, this one at a reasonable volume.

Ireland had left.

England heard a whimper from next door. And a thump. He was knocking at North's door before he knew it.

"North?" He called out anxiously. "North, are you alright?"

A slight gasp and another thump.

England wrenched the door open to find North curled up in a tight ball against his bed, hands clawing at his temples.


	2. Chapter 2

England rushed to his side, leaving the door swinging precariously between closing and opening.

"North?" England repeated, hands wavering uncertainly around his brother's shoulders. What the hell was he supposed to do?  
North shook his head slowly, "They're fighting again."

Of course they were. England swore. Catholics and Protestants had been clashing and burning Northern Ireland for the whole century, not knowing what they were doing to their own country. North, already sullen at seven had steadily become more and more of an irritable recluse ready to snap at anyone as he grew into his teenage years. Scotland and Wales left him alone, knowing that he would only get worse as more and more blood was split on the broken streets of Belfast. England and Ireland had tried to draw North out of his shell, though this was driven mostly by guilt.

"How bad is it?" England made his tone more gentle. He had watched North's fits worsen with the Troubles but the choke of fear around his throat was as potent as the first time.

"Car bombs in Belfast. They don't know who it was but they blame each other." North clawed at temples, head splitting apart as his people divided, blamed, killed each other.

England lost his hesitation and wrapped an arm around North's shoulder, holding his head to England's shoulder with the other hand. Unexpectedly, North wriggled free.

"Leave." He barked.

England made no move.

"Leave!" North screeched again. He hauled himself back into his bed. "This is your fault! It's all your fault. Don't come in here trying to help!"

England started towards North but the latter shoved his hands away.

"Your government started this! Now they're doing nothing to stop it! Don't come in here pretending to help! Leave." North bellowed through the pain.

England felt a surge of anger at the unfairness. He wanted to repeat the old argument that they weren't their governments, scream that it was Ireland's IRA that had started this bloody mess as much as his people…

The front of North's thin shirt seeped an insidious crimson.

His anger vanished.

England caught North in a tangle of limbs as he swayed and lurched to the floor.

"I'll get the bandages." England whirled around at the sound of Wales' voice to find him and Scotland peering in anxiously at the door. North could shout as loudly as his sister. Wales grimaced and pulled Scotland along as they went to fetch the first aid kit that they had to use all too frequently.

North whimpered again as sweat glistened on his forehead. England gently peeled his shirt off his body to a deep weal scorched against North's stomach. North blinked wearily.

"They're rioting." His voice was dead. But England knew that beneath his toneless exterior North was silently pleading for his people to stop, stop.

And as England wadded the shirt and pressed it firmly against he wound, he knew that through it all his little brother still loved his people regardless of how much pain they caused him.

He felt a crushing urge to sweep North up and hug him, hold him like he never had. But he merely said "I'm sorry."

North's skin was paper but he still managed a chuckle. "No you're not."

England held the shirt with one hand as he reached up to cup the back of North's head, slick with sweat.

"I am." He said softly. "I'm sorry this has to happen to you. It is my fault. I know that." His throat felt clogged.

But as Wales darted in with bandages and Scotland dragged England away carefully, North's eyes seem to soften.

Wales had stitched him up far too quickly. Scotland had wiped North's boiling forehead and gently buttoned a new shirt onto him with far too much practise. England lifted North onto his bed with an experience he hated having. North wriggled under the duvet, shivering slightly.

This was where they could do no more. England knew he should walk out, let North rest…

England wheeled towards North and engulfed him in a strong embrace. North winced slightly. "England?"

"I'm still here." England whispered. He squeezed North's hand. They held each other's gaze wordlessly.

England smiled. "Get some rest. We'll bring you up something to eat."

North nodded groggily and England turned to follow Scotland and Wales – who had dutifully ignored this exchange – outside.

England knew North's headaches persisted long after his fits faded. He pulled the door closed softly.


End file.
